


A Boy Named Sue

by Anythingtoasted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Pre-Series, death's door
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 21:00:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s just a park, but Dean gets out of the car almost tentatively.</p><p>It’s like he’s scared; he’s a kid, seven years old, maybe eight – Bobby doesn’t know, and John has never really thought to tell him. The only thing Bobby has ever really gotten from John about the kid has been There’s a hunt upstate. Too dangerous. You take him. He doesn’t even know what Dean likes, doesn’t even know if he’s old enough to have a personality yet, let alone if he wants to go to the fucking park.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Boy Named Sue

It’s just a park, but Dean gets out of the car almost tentatively.

It’s like he’s scared; he’s a kid, seven years old, maybe eight – Bobby doesn’t know, and John has never really thought to tell him. The only thing Bobby has ever really gotten from John about the kid has been _There’s a hunt upstate. Too dangerous. You take him._ He doesn’t even know what Dean _likes,_ doesn’t even know if he’s old enough to have a personality yet, let alone if he wants to go to the fucking _park._

He sighs before he pulls himself out of the driver’s seat, sneaks a hand under his cap to scratch at his head, then readjusts it. When he looks down, Dean is staring up at him.

He thinks of the guns in the back of the car, and then looks at Dean’s tiny hands, the freckles dusting his nose, the expressionlessness of his face. He balks in disbelief at the idea of putting a friggin’ shotgun between those hands.

“C’mon, kid.” He says gruffly, and leaves the parking lot, Dean trailing behind like a jack russell, albeit a confused one. Bobby says nothing to him until they get to the park, and the boy’s voice comes unexpectedly from next to him.

“Hey, Bobby, where’re we going?”

Bobby looks down at him in surprise; Dean almost never talks, and when he does, he rarely says Bobby’s name. He’s a quiet, stoic little kid, only really cheerful when he’s with his brother.

“Well, Dean, what’s it look like?”

Dean just looks at him, confused. Bobby wonders if he’s ever even been to the park before, and it makes his stomach sink. “Dad says I’m supposed to practice with the double-barrel.”

He’s an eight year old, and he’s asking for a double-barrel like it’s a glass of milk. “Well, we’re gonna skip the guns today.”  He hands Dean the catcher’s mitt, and the boy holds it like it’s about to go off. “Here. Today you're gonna throw a ball around, just like a regular snot-nosed little jerk.”

Dean still looks so confused that he almost gets irritated. He throws the ball at him, gentle enough that the kid can catch it, at least, and Dean reacts reflexively; clasps the ball between his hands. “Dad’ll be mad.” He says, quietly, and Bobby almost rolls his eyes.

“You let me worry about your dad.” John is a friend, more than a good hunter, and more reliable than most people Bobby’s met on the job, but sometimes he is a crappy fucking father. The way this kid quakes in his boots is testament to it; no kid should be afraid of his dad. No kid should know what real fear is. Not this young; not like he did.

Dean looks hesitant, but throws the ball back. He’s got a fairly good arm, for a kid; lacks technique, but that’s probably because he’s more used to throwing holy water than playing catch. Bobby lets him take to it – throws it back soft, going easy on him, until Dean obviously tires of his patience and starts trying to mess him up; throws the ball back overarm, aiming for his head, his arm; his aim is better than that (Bobby’s seen him shoot, after all), and Bobby walks back to give him a wider berth, throws the ball back harder. Dean doesn’t talk much but he grins when Bobby starts to play in earnest, pleased by the challenge, or just because someone’s paying attention to him.

Bobby’s seen the way John barks at the boys, the way his eyes flick to his sons and then away, always preoccupied, never really engaged. Sure, he’s guilty of it himself, sometimes, but then – his eyes settle on Dean, the kid in oversized clothes, one of his Dad’s old jackets, sleeves rolled up – they’re not _his_ kids.

After a couple hours Dean starts looking weary; he keeps playing but it’s not enthusiastic anymore, and Bobby catches a throw from him, and stops. He walks over.

“You alright?”

Dean doesn’t look sure. “Yeah. I’m fine.” He pulls his chin up, a parody of defiance, of adulthood, and Bobby laughs, though not at him. Sometimes Dean is like his dad. This isn’t one of those times.

“You want a burger, kid?”

Dean shrugs, the catcher’s mitt still on one hand, but follows when Bobby starts walking back to the car. He gets into the passenger seat, hands in the pockets of the worn-out old jacket, and Bobby pulls out of the parking lot, the old pickup clanking with every bump in the road. It’s not far to the nearest fast food joint; there’s a lot of them in Sioux Falls, anyhow. Maybe five minutes down the road Dean’s voice comes again, hesitant and faraway, older than his years. “You sure dad won’t be mad?”

Bobby looks at him. The real answer is of course he will be – John’ll be pissed, and no mistake – but he wants the kid to stop _worrying_ for once. “He’ll be okay.” He says, and tries to sound sure.

“Dad says your car is a piece of crap.” Dean mutters, after more moments of strange silence, and Bobby laughs.

“Your dad says a lot of things. Some of ‘em aren’t true.”

Dean looks at him, but says nothing.

It’s only when they’re sitting down – when Dean is opposite him in the booth, and eating like a starved animal – that Bobby realises he’s mad about today. Mad that Dean didn’t know how to play catch, didn’t know it was okay to mess around. That his dad would put a shotgun in his hands, much less get a relative stranger to teach him to shoot it. They’d shot guns before, he and Dean, and the kid had an aptitude but it was fuelled by the kind of hunger and desperation that no kid should even _know_ before they were grown.

Dean barely pays him any attention as he eats; the burger is almost bigger than his face, but it doesn’t seem to matter.  Bobby picks at his own food, awkward. What do you even talk to kids about, when all you want to tell them is that things’ll get better? That you’re sorry?

It’s not his place to say he’s sorry, anyway.

Instead he waits til Dean is done, goes back to the car and takes him back to the garage. He takes John’s phonecall – _I’ll be late_ , _tell Dean to behave himself –_ and frowns when John asks how Dean handled the shotgun. “No, we didn't shoot rifles, as a matter of fact. We threw a ball around. He's a kid, John. They both are. They're entitled.” He sighs when John’s tone turns vicious, recalcitrant, indignant. “Yeah, I know I ain't their dad.”

He puts the phone down; Sam’s back from daycare and the two of them are on the couch watching some cartoon. Dean has his brother at his side, and Sam’s head is tipped against his shoulder; Dean is running a hand through his brother’s thin crop of hair, gentle. He turns to Bobby though, once Bobby’s let go of the receiver, clearly having heard the whole conversation. He nods like he’s as old as Bobby; like they’re equals, like they’ve both seen just as much as each other.

Maybe they almost _have._

Bobby nods back.  


End file.
